


Kidnapped

by MeltingAutumn



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Panic Attacks, Violence, maybe later on the fluff, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltingAutumn/pseuds/MeltingAutumn
Summary: “Tubbo?” Wilbur finally shatters the silence with a gentle, broken voice. “Did, um… did you hear?”Instead of replying, Tubbo bursts into tears.--or, Tommy gets kidnapped for ransom
Relationships: no - Relationship
Comments: 47
Kudos: 746





	1. Chapter 1

Wilbur has been in a rut all week.

Or maybe it’s been a month. Who knows.

But it’s the reason he’s currently lying flat on his back on top of his covers, scrolling through twitter with his mind halfway turned off. Can’t be bothered. His body feels heavy. The time slowly approaches Midnight and he wonders if he’ll be able to fall asleep at all tonight, considering the hours he’d spent doing absolutely nothing.

Discord begins to ring, interrupting his scrolling.

Tubbo? Odd. He had class in the morning, surely.

Absently, Wilbur accepts the call with a soft “Hi.” under his breath.

There’s a few seconds of silence before Tubbo replies. He sounds wide awake, and almost on edge. “Wilbur?”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Um…” Tubbo hesitates, and he doesn’t hear much else through his microphone. Wilbur furrows his brow in confusion, waiting with baited breath. “Have you, by chance, talked to Tommy today?”

Weird. Wilbur plays back the day in his mind. It isn’t hard to remember- he hardly did much at all. “I don’t think I have, no.” He responds.

“Oh… Okay.” Silence.

“Care to tell me why?” He presses, suddenly feeling much more awake as Tubbo continues to hesitate and fumble over stuttering noises as he tries to put his words together.

Finally, he speaks. “Um… it… it might be nothing, but he- he didn’t come home from school today, and his parents can’t get ahold of him.”

Now Wilbur’s wide awake. Sitting up in his bed, he fights the dizzy spell that overtakes him and he massages his temples. “Did he go to a friend’s house or something?”

“They’ve tried calling his friends, but nobody has seen him. They tried waiting to see if he’d come home eventually but it’s really late now, and… and…” Wilbur can hear the strain in his voice. Can hear the slight wobble in his pitch as his worry overflows into his words.

He doesn’t quite know how to respond to this. So instead, he sits quietly, his mind racing a mile a minute. Eventually, Tubbo interjects his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to throw all this at you, it might- it might be nothing, I just wanted to see if he’d said anything to you.”

Shaking his head, Wilbur says, “The last I talked to him was last night, but he didn’t say anything.” A thought occurs to him. “Actually… I thought- I thought he said he was planning to stream tonight.”

Tubbo’s voice sounds scared. “Yeah, I thought so too.”

\---

Tommy’s day had been good.

Or, rather, as good as it can be when you take classes on subjects you’re basically an expert at already. Sure, the the lessons can be dull at times, often repetitive and amateurish, but critique days were sometimes his favorites, because it was the day he could show off his skills and reinforce his place at the top of the class. He especially loved when he’d manage to pull impressed expressions from the teachers, and get even the strictest of graders to actively compliment his homework in front of the class.

It was an ego boost for sure, and _wow_ did he love it.

It was worth the boring lectures.

He walks home while the sun is still tall, nose buried in his phone.

He doesn’t see the four men exit a car on the curbside and approach him.

Empty streets offer no witness to what takes place. Not even Tommy fully comprehends the moment, his earbuds cranked up and his sight impaired by the screen. He isn’t aware of the threat until a hand grabs the back of his skull and slams it into the brick building beside him, immediately throwing the world into a tailspin before his eyes. There’s not even a moment for him to cry out as a drum pounds between his ears and darkness swallows the street corner.

It’s only for a few seconds that he’s completely out cold. He knows this because when the ringing in his ears stops and he can feel his surroundings, the leather of a car seat gets pressed up against his back and a car door slams shut. Something heavy weighs down on his head, and his arms are awkwardly folded behind him and tied together at the wrists, chafing the skin.

As the world starts to right itself, panic begins to sweep through his veins, a heartbeat replacing the hammer in his head. The car begins to vibrate as it leaves the curb. He opens his mouth, managing to get out a “Wait- no!” before someone grabs him roughly by the head and something sharp pricks at the side of his neck.

Everything goes blank.

When he comes to, he can’t see.

However, he’s no longer laying down in a car seat. Instead, he’s sitting up in a chair, bound and gagged, with a bag tugged over his head. His face feels wet, and he’s not sure why that is until the pounding returns in his head in full force, and nausea crawls up his stomach. He tastes iron on his lips. The bag on his head is matted on the right side, sticky as though clinging to the blood seeping down his face. His body goes cold. Numb. He's shaking violently.

Desperately, he wants to cry out for help. But then a hand grabs the bag in a fistful and yanks it off of his head, throwing him into bright light. Pain swims through his temples and he flinches, breathing hard and fast, sweat beading on his brow, a shiver crawling up his arms.

There’s a camera in his face.

For a moment, he stares back at it, transfixed. A blinking red light above the lens catches his eye. His heart thunders in his ears, pain blossoming on the right side of his skull where he had hit his head, and for a moment his body considers passing out again. Before he can consider this option, in a sudden motion, someone grabs a handful of his hair from the back and yanks his head up, tearing a yelp out from the back of his throat. Tommy swallows iron and stares up at the man above him with wild, terrified eyes, tears beginning to swell from the pain.

“Please…” Tommy begs beneath his breath, his voice hoarse. The man above him pays him no mind. Instead, he can pick up on bits and pieces of what he says. He talks about numbers. No, not just any numbers. Money. Ransom. This is ransom. Is that what’s happening? Really?

Part of him wants to laugh. Part of him wants to scream. Instead, his shoulders quake violently with each sob that rips its way out of his chest, hot tears mixing with the blood matted on his face, his fingers gripping the edges of the armrests like lifelines. He can do nothing as the man above him lays out the rules of the ransom to the camera, a mask hiding his own identity, ignoring the horrified pleas of his kidnapped victim.

The camera turns off. There’s another sharp prick at Tommy’s neck before he can react, and then the world goes dark again.

\---

Everyone sees the video.

_Everyone_ does.

It doesn’t matter that the video gets taken down in the short span of it getting uploaded. It doesn’t matter where it keeps ending up. Because it manages to circulate anyway.

Wilbur is on a call with Techno and Phil the next morning when the video begins to pick up traction.

Techno is the first to find it.

When he stumbles on the video on his twitter timeline of all places, he isn’t really sure what it is. He lets it play before he can process what it is he’s looking at, and before he can click off, he unwillingly subjects himself to the image of a man ripping the bag off of a bloody and bruised face of Tommy Innit, who stares back at the camera with wild and terrified eyes, sending a cold shiver up Techno’s spine, who stares back just as intensely.

He goes deathly quiet, horror dropping a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

For several long moments, the man in the video begins to speak, but Techno’s eyes are glued to his little brother in the chair, who looks between the camera and the left side and the man at his shoulder with fearful and pained eyes. The blood running down his face looks crusted, his hair greasy and flat over his forehead.

He looks terrified.

Techno doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tommy this genuinely scared before.

The man in the video yanks Tommy’s head back and the boy cries out, blood mixing with tears and sweat and suddenly Techno has the urge to vomit. Dropping his phone, he rips off his headphones and stumbles out of his chair, barely making it to the trash can across the room.

Hunched over the bin, the palms of his hands pressed against his ears, he retches and heaves until he has nothing left to give. He pants heavily, exhaling soft whimpers between each breath as horror grips the pit of his stomach.

This can’t be real.

This has to be a joke.

When he finally finds the resolve to drag himself back to his computer, Phil and Wilbur both pause at his return, assumedly waiting for him to speak.

“…Fuck.” Is all he can say, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbing them violently, spots dancing in his dark vision.

“Techno, all good?” Wilbur asks, curious. “It sounded like you were throwing up.”

“That’s because I was.” He croaks, unable to open his eyes again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“What’s wrong, mate?” Phil asks, and Techno wishes he hadn’t.

“Tommy.” Techno says simply, his voice broken, and his two friends jump on him to elaborate, pushing him for information, but he isn’t sure how to explain what on earth he had just seen.

It doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t take much longer for Phil to stumble onto the video, and for Wilbur to follow soon after. While Techno tries desperately to rub the memory from his eyes, his two friends watch the video with baited breaths, and the call goes deathly quiet.

Six minutes later, Tubbo joins their call. For several moments, the three of them wait for him to speak, unsure of how to break the ice after witnessing... _that_.

“Tubbo?” Wilbur finally shatters the silence with a gentle, broken voice. “Did, um… did you hear?”

Instead of replying, Tubbo bursts into tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy comes to in an empty room, staring at the far wall with his head pressed against the cold tile floor.

For a long time, he tries to stay as still as possible while the room spins in his vision. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. Somewhere he finds himself stuck between sleep and wakefulness, drifting in and out of his nightmares without a firm grasp on reality.

At some points, he feels himself falling from a very tall cliff, plummeting through the clouds to sharp jagged rocks below, unable to move or scream. And then he’s drowning, caught in a riptide as the waves crash over his head, pushing him beneath the surface and depriving him of air, bubbles racing to the surface, his chest collapsing in on itself.

His brain can’t figure out what’s real; not until much later when he opens his eyes to the empty room for what feels like the hundredth time and manages to find some semblance of stability. His fingers obey first, curling into fists as warmth begins flowing back through his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he takes several pained breaths and attempts to ground himself, fighting paralysis until he can slowly push himself into a kneeling position.

The drum in his head worsens with the movement, causing him to press his palm against his temple and breathe out hard through his nose. His hands are trembling. Badly. Funny, because he didn’t really notice until he looked down at them, watching for a few seconds until they start to fade out and darkness starts tugging at the edges of his vision again.

No. He shakes his head, attempting to clear the fog, moving to stand.

The first attempt is a failure. His body is awkward and heavy, only partially listening to his commands as he topples over onto the tile again with a seething hiss of pain. His elbow sparks up at the collision with the tile, and he fights the urge to vomit.

The second attempt, he places his hand flat against the wall and uses it as an anchor, pulling himself upright. His vision flickers with spots and he presses his fingers against his eyelids, massaging the sore skin at his brow.

Focusing on his breathing, waiting for the dizzy spell to subside, he picks his head up and looks at the metal door on the far end of the room.

He’s trying so, so hard to fight panic right now, but the more conscious he becomes, the more the reality of his situation is beginning to set in. The more his fear begins to swallow him again. The more his head pounds against his temple. The more his heart begins to pound against his chest violently like a caged animal, and needles swim through his arms.

Moving to the door, he reaches for where a knob should be and finds that it’s been removed. He pushes on the bars guarding the window, finding them sturdy. He kicks the door. Nothing.

Desperation begins to claw at his chest and he scrambles forward, placing both of his hands against the metal with tears in his eyes. “Hello? Is anyone out there? Please!” He begs, crying out as loud as he could muster.

“Help me!” He bangs his fists on the door, a metal clang resounding off the walls.

He’s met with unbearable silence.

\---

Wilbur lies awake, staring at his ceiling with fireworks in his stomach.

He doesn’t know what to _do_.

While Tommy’s family had gone head-first into police affairs, detectives, and criminal justice personnel, Wilbur finds himself struggling to sit and do absolutely nothing. The feeling of helplessness has already begun eating him alive, rendering him useless and terrified, drowning him in his racing thoughts.

It’s hours into his pity party when Tubbo asks him to voice chat, and Wilbur accepts promptly, his heart beginning to race. “Have you heard anything?” He asks desperately, sitting up in bed.

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is quiet. Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose and lays back down in the divot he had created for himself in the comforter. “Sorry. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s okay.” Wilbur tells him, and he hears his friend sniffle.

“I can’t stop replaying the video in my head. It’s on loop. It sucks.” Tubbo complains, and Wilbur hears a shuffling as he assumes he puts his phone down. “I… I wish it would stop circulating the internet.”

“You and me both.”

“He…” Tubbo hesitates, his breathing beginning to wobble. “He looked so scared, Wilbur…”

His stomach ties up into knots at the sound of his voice. “I know. But don’t forget who we’re talking about here- Tommy’s a tough kid.” He says, only half believing himself, trying so hard to be the strong pillar for this lost, terrified kid.

“He likes to think he’s tough.” Tubbo retorts under his breath, and Wilbur frowns sadly to himself.

“He’s going to be okay, Tubbo.”

There’s no response to that.

The night drags on for a very, very long time.

\---

“They know where we are?”

“Yeah, which means we need to move, _now_.”

\---

Tommy flinches at the sound of footsteps outside the metal door of his cell.

He hadn’t remembered falling asleep again, dreariness settled in the bridge of his nose where a headache had long formed. Someone messes with the door from the outside and he scrambles to his feet, heart thundering, and then it swings open to a dark corridor, two men moving swiftly inside.

He tries to use that moment to make a break for it. Pushing off the ground with his sneakers squeaking against the tile, he lets out a battle cry and barges for the opening between the two of them.

Arms wrap around him and he punches and claws, desperately wailing as he fends them off. His arms get folded behind his back and he attempts to kick backwards, nearly missing the man’s groin as he steps out of range.

“Let me go! Fuckin’- let me go! Help!” Tommy screeches, squirming his way out of their grip, only to fall into the arms of a third man who grabs him by the back of the neck and pushes him into the tile floor with a dull thud.

Stars dance in his vision, and if Tommy thought the headache was bad already, it just got ten times worse. Though his sense of balance had been compromised, his brain in a fog, he still lashes out wildly, landing a few punches and kicks as he thrashes about. It’s hard to get a sense of his bearings, but when one of them makes another grab at him and he bites down hard on their skin, causing them to reel backwards, it’s the opening he needs to run, run, _run_!

Everything is spinning dangerously in his vision, but his body is moving on pure adrenaline, pushing past the pain. He skids around a corner and runs down a long hallway, barreling shoulder-first into a push door that throws him into a back alleyway, and he stumbles over a brick curb that drops two steps down.

The sun is just beginning to rise through the buildings. Unable to slow himself down, he collides shoulder-first into the opposite wall, breathing hard as he works up the resolve to keep going. Every fiber of his being feels like it’s on fire, but it doesn’t matter. He just needs to move.

Angry voices resound behind him, only fueling his panic-educed state, and he takes off towards the main road, swatches of yellow illuminating the street corner as long shadows are cast across the sidewalk.

He stumbles into the sunlight and doesn’t look behind him.

Voices shout after him, and heavy footsteps follow, but he pushes himself to keep going, turning corners and bounding across streets, his body overflowing with pure, cold fear. He can't think straight. He can hardly see what's in front of him. But it doesn't matter.

It’s a long time until he feels like he can stop running.

The streets are empty. He figures this is normal for how early in the day it is, but it doesn’t help ease his nerves, because it makes it harder to blend in with a crowd or hide amongst other people. Everyone he does come across is too sleepy and too focused on getting to work to pay him any mind.

Tommy doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t have a goal. His body moves on auto-pilot, wandering the empty streets in a daze, unable to think or form any plan other than _move_.

He can feel an ocean breeze tickling his skin, which is odd. He doesn’t live near the water.

Crossing his arms, he swallows shakily and continues routinely glancing behind him. He had successfully lost them. He hopes so, at least. A shiver crawls up his spine and he chatters his teeth, feeling the aftershock slowly begin to replace his adrenaline.

Wait.

He stops as he turns the corner, staring at the seaside avenue that stretches out before him. It snaps him out of his daze, and his body responds with an ache, but that’s not what catches his attention.

He’s been here before.

He’s definitely…

…Brighton?

Squinting, he glances around, looking for landmarks. Yeah. Yeah, this is definitely Brighton. Which means…

Tommy keeps moving.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t track down police. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t look for an open store to ask for a phone. None of these options cross his concussed mind. All he can think to do is make his way towards someone he knows. Someone he trusts.

Two hours of aimless walking pass by in a blur. A haze. His mind is beginning to shut down, his body rebelling against his commands with each step. Feet drag against the sidewalk. He gets lost once or twice, doubling back and trying so hard to find his way around, ignoring a woman when she stops and asks if he’s alright. Can’t be bothered.

He stops dead in his tracks when he finds what he’s looking for, and his relief is overwhelming.

\---

Wilbur manages to fall asleep at some point.

He knows this, because he’s torn into consciousness by furious knocking at his door. For a moment, he really wants to ignore whoever’s trying to sell him something right now. It’s far, far too early to be awake and alive, especially having not slept in two days, and Wilbur wants so desperately to turn over and return back to the little sleep he was managing to get.

The knocking doesn’t stop.

With a frustrated sigh, Wilbur begrudgingly throws the blanket aside and steps out of bed, stomping towards the doorway with sleep crusting his eyes.

Even as he makes his way to the front of his house, the knocking continues endlessly, and Wilbur finally grabs the handle in a vice and yanks the door inwards, prepared to tell off whoever the hell was waking him up.

Tommy Innit stares back at him with tired, glazed eyes, swaying in place with his fist raised where he had been knocking. There’s blood matted on his face, his hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead, and there’s holes in his shirt.

Their eyes lock.

Wilbur sucks in a startled breath.

“Wilbur.” Tommy’s eyes begin to water, his mouth pulled into a smile, or maybe a grimace, and he moves to take a step forward.

Wilbur Soot has half a second to catch Tommy before his knees buckle, and he collapses heavily into his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

This is a dream right?

A nightmare?

Wilbur stares, transfixed, and the world seems to come to a pause. A standstill. Before him is his friend, his brother, standing on unsteady feet with an empty gaze, blood crusted on his cheek. It’s not an image Wilbur ever imagined he’d have to see in person, and every fiber of his being begs to wake up, to get back to normalcy. This can’t be real. He doesn’t want this false hope.

And then Tommy collapses.

Wilbur snaps out of his daze with a jolt, scrambling to wrap his arms around his friend as he collides with his chest. His head smacks against his rib and he sucks in a pained inhale, sinking into a kneeling position with his momentum, his mind doing a flawless impression of a blue screen while he stares down at the kid in his arms with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

What the fuck.

Wilbur struggles to reposition- thank goodness that Tommy weighs about as much as a bean pole- and pulls his legs under himself into a criss-cross seat, turning Tommy over to lay him across his leg. He snakes an arm under his head, propping him up. Tommy’s eyes are open, surprisingly, a river of dried blood caked across his brow and cheek, his mouth slightly ajar with heavy breaths billowing out as he locks his gaze with his brother’s.

His eyes are slightly dazed, his complexion pale as his chest rattles with his breaths. Wilbur bites down on his tongue, looking him over, completely at a loss for words.

“Wilbur.” Tommy says for the second time in a garbled voice that just manages to escape the back of his throat. He squints his eyes, taking long blinks and furrowing his brow. Wilbur’s shadow shields him from the hallway ceiling light.

“Tommy?” He finally manages to sputter out, moving his hand to the source of the blood seeping from his hair, immediately pulling away when Tommy responds with a pained hiss, tensing up in his arms. Grinding his teeth, Tommy curls closer to Wilbur and buries his face in his arm.

“How the fuck did you…” Wilbur attempts to pick out a question among thousands, inevitably failing, and his heart pounds against his ribcage.

“Chased me.” Tommy mutters, and Wilbur looks up at the front entrance of his home, his heart dropping as he reaches out with his free hand and swings the door shut. It slams on the frame, emanating a loud bang that makes Tommy flinch.

“Wait here, okay?” Wilbur tells him in the steadiest voice he can muster, moving to go get his phone, but Tommy reacts before he can, violently snatching Wilbur’s shirt in his hand and staring into his eyes with a pleading look.

He stares up at his older brother, opening and closing his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out.

“I need to call the police, Tommy, and an ambulance.”

Tommy shakes his head. He trembles, gripping Wilbur’s shirt tighter.

Wilbur sucks in a breath, unsure of what to do. “Here.”

He reaches an arm around Tommy’s back, slowly lifting him into a sitting position. At this, his friend goes deathly still with his eyes furrowed shut, his face going pale and his grasp on Wilbur weakening. “Dizzy.” He mutters out, and for a moment, the two of them go still. Silence. Tommy heaves like he’s going to puke, but seals his lips shut and shudders instead, rubbing at his eyes.

Stuck, Wilbur looks between Tommy and the stairwell. “I need to get my phone, okay? I’ll be back in one second, I promise.”

“Fine, go, go get your bloody phone.” Tommy blurts out, letting go of his shirt and pressing his palm against his temple. Oddly enough, Wilbur feels relief to hear his irritated tone. It brings back some semblance of familiarity in such a strange situation.

Sprinting up the stairs two at a time, Wilbur skids down the hallway and into his bedroom, swiping the phone from off the counter and immediately calling the police. He glances out his window as he passes, paranoia causing him to worry that whoever had been chasing Tommy is still out and about, somewhere nearby, ready to strike. But no one is outside of his house.

When he returns to the ground floor, Tommy had thrown up onto the hardwood. Deciding not to worry about that for now, he holds his breath and puts an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, guiding him to his feet while he prattles on to the operator. He’s unsteady at first, swaying in place while Wilbur keeps a firm grip on him.

Tommy is shivering now, his arms crossed in front of him with his head bowed. Wilbur gently guides him to the kitchen table, moving to grab a wash cloth from off the counter along the way, firm and steady with his movements so as to not jostle him. He seats Tommy down in a kitchen chair slowly. Wilbur kneels in front of him, finishing his conversation with the operator and then placing his phone on the table.

The house falls deathly silent.

Wilbur stares at the boy in the kitchen light.

His eyes are heavy. There’s a knot forming on the top right of his head where the blood had been seeping out of, and a tear in his shirt at his shoulder seams. Instead of the loud, boisterous friend he plays video games with on the regular, he sees a terrified kid, shivering and hurt. Tommy’s hands are held in fists on his knees, and he’s biting his lip so hard it’s beginning to tear.

Gently, he brings the wash cloth up to Tommy’s cheek and frowns at the way he flinches at first. His head pulls backwards and a whimper whistles between his teeth, but Wilbur puts his spare hand on his friend’s shoulder and steadies him, shushing him gently as though he were helping a cornered animal. On his second attempt, Tommy’s face scrunches up with displeasure, but he keeps still and holds his breath.

After a few moments, he closes his eyes as Wilbur wipes the blood from his face, a steady rhythm falling between the two of them. He grinds his teeth absently, tense with each swipe of pressure, curling his fingers into tense fists until his knuckles turn white. But with each sweep of the cloth, Tommy grows more relaxed, his brow softening. His breathing billows out slower and deeper, and for a moment, Wilbur wonders if he had fallen asleep in the chair.

Tenderly, He reaches up to the cut on his head again and pulls away as the other winces, recoiling against the back rest.

“I think the bleeding stopped.” Wilbur finally says in a soft voice, looking at his dry fingers.

Tommy doesn’t say anything. Though he does finally open his eyes, staring down at his knees as Wilbur continues to clean his face.

Wilbur stops.

Tommy looks up at him.

Silence.

They stay in a stalemate for a moment, with Wilbur staring at Tommy while he returns his stare to the floor, pressing his lips together firmly. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. He can’t quite pick out a good question to ask him. ‘ _Are you okay?’ Of course he’s not! ‘How did you get hurt?’ Why does that matter? ‘Did you know how worried I was?’ Don’t make it about yourself, Wilbur._

Before he could settle on what to say, his veins go cold at the sound of Tommy’s breath hitching, his eyes screwing shut. Tears swell at the corners of his eyes and his face flushes red as he curls inward on himself, crossing his arms protectively.

“Hey, hey, Tommy, it’s okay-“ Wilbur holds his hands out, shifting on his knees. But the floodgates have suddenly opened, and a sob rips its way out of Tommy’s throat, a raw ache settling in Wilbur’s chest at the sound of it.

He reaches forward and pulls him down into an embrace, squeezing him tight.

His small form trembles against him, broken sounds muffled into Wilbur’s shoulder, and he just holds him. Keeps him together. Steadies him. Tommy wails against him, gripping the back of his shirt in an iron vice, tears staining his shoulder.

Wilbur’s voice is gentle when he speaks. “It’s okay now, Tommy, you’re okay. I promise.”

Tommy clutches him tighter, sobbing into his shirt, falling to pieces in his arms, while Wilbur breathes a silent prayer of thanks for his safe return. He rubs circles into his back, rocking slightly on his knees, waiting patiently as the minutes tick by. His labored breathing catches on each inhale, hiccups spasming his chest, his knuckles going white from desperately clinging to his brother.

“I was so scared.” He whispers, and Wilbur starts fighting back his own tears, ignoring the way his heart flops violently in his chest.

Eventually, his breaths begin to even out, and his body begins to relax its grip on Wilbur. Tommy’s arms come to fall at his sides while he keeps his face buried in Wilbur’s shoulder, sniffling every so often. “I’ve got you.” Wilbur promises him, still holding him firmly. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

A sniffle and a hiccup is his only reply. Tommy’s shoulders hitch with labored, uneven breaths, and his body grows sluggish. Wilbur squeezes him once, patting the square of his back. “I’ve got you, Tommy.”

Tommy’s response is a broken whisper. “Thanks, Wil.”


End file.
